Delirium
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: An epidemic sweeps through Ithilien, taking lives by the day. Faramir is struck, and Legolas is his last hope... But at what cost? WIP - NO SLASH!
1. Default Chapter

A/N: This is Delirium. It's finally here..... This is short, yes. I'm not sure how fast I'll be able to update for the next month or so, because I currently have 3 other WIPs that need updating as well... *sigh* What can I say, always have been a multi-tasker...  
  
Legolas, Faramir, Eowyn, Aragorn, and Arwen will make appearances. Who ever else may turn up along the way, I don't know. That much is out of my control.  
  
This is Angst, mainly, but it always has some content that could be considered Sci-fi or Supernatural...You'll see...That is, if it ever gets updated past this and doesn't die....Hee hee...  
  
Prologue.  
  
She sobbed with a choke in the solitude of her chambers. Her back was turned to the door, as she sat bent over with her head bowed in despair. Her golden hair hid her face, spilling down her back and o'er her shoulders. She had not wept this way since Theodred died – this sort of women's weeping. But in this time, she was indeed a woman and not the shield maiden warrior she had always prided herself in being. She was no longer proud or invincible; she was weak now. She was losing her grip on stability, as she had already lost her composure. It was hopeless, she thought in a small tone. Hopeless. A whimper rattled her chest as she thought this, her fingers rubbing a white handkerchief in her lap. It looked plain against the dark brown, velvet skirt. Even the flowing, ivory sleeves of her gown made the handkerchief look ordinary. It was a folded, simple little handkerchief; one of the corners had a flower embroidered on it. It might've seemed like nothing special compared to all the other prettier things, yet it was the only thing that gave a strange comfort to her.  
  
He watched her from the door. The lamplight was dim in its corner, the only light to accompany the bleak rays streaming down through the crack in the curtains. The flame flickered for an instant and continued to burn for her. He knew she was crying; he had heard her from the other end of the corridor with his pointed ears. He also had a suspicion as to why she cried, but whatever the reason, he loathed to see her in such a state. It wasn't in her nature to despair, and it did not befit her to do either. He lingered in the shadowed doorway still, unsure of what to do. Compassion glimmered in his eyes, as they looked in at her from the shadows. The past few weeks had been no easy thing to bear, even for him. An epidemic had swept through Ithilien with a swift and powerful force. Already, it had claimed many lives and many more still lay ill and dying. None of them knew exactly what the disease was, though it had familiar symptoms to other illnesses. Word had been sent to Minas Tirith, imploring the king for help. He had been unable to come, for his own health must be undoubtedly preserved, but he had offered as much advice as possible. It had been a small help but no match for the epidemic.  
  
With unheard footsteps, he hurried to her side. She didn't sense him approaching, did not turn around. She did not jump, however, or straighten up to greet him. Even as he knelt at her feet, she remained bent. He stilled her hands from fidgeting over the handkerchief and took one of them in his own.  
  
"Eowyn," he breathed. Finally, she looked up from her lap to meet his gaze, her tear-filled eyes distant beyond her hair. Her face was wet, and her lips quivered; his eyes glimmered again with pity. "Why do you weep?" he queried, not meaning to jest. She understood him and paused for a moment, reluctant to speak the truth. Her pursed lips shook together, her eyes welled up to the point where he thought they would burst open with the floodgates of Middle Earth. He looked at her with the expression of a hurt and confused child.  
  
"Oh, Legolas," she whimpered, shuddering. "Faramir's dying." She sounded like a heartbroken little girl, staring at him hopelessly. He only upheld the gaze, not knowing what to say. He knew Faramir had fallen ill, another victim to the epidemic, but he had never thought the prince of Ithilien would come close to death. Perhaps it was because Elves were not a people to despair, or perhaps it was because he had come to love Faramir so deeply that he would not allow himself to consider death a possibility. Whatever the reason, he had not thought of it until this – until Faramir's very wife told him flatly. And he did not realize he was shaking his head.  
  
"No," he said in a hoarse breath. "He cannot be dying. We will heal him, milady." Eowyn shook her head in likeness to him, tears streaming down her face steadily. She closed her eyes as if in pain, still shaking her head and causing her hair to shift against her shoulders. "We'll heal him, milady," he said again. "We will. You'll see. Faramir will be all right in a few days time."  
  
"Stop it," she said quietly, ceasing to shake her head as her eyes opened. "He's dying, Legolas. There's no question about it. The healers have told me; it is hopeless."  
  
"He'll be fine," he murmured. "You'll see. He'll wake up."  
  
"Stop it," Eowyn screamed, getting to her feet in a flurry. Her face flushed, still wet with tears, and the ivory sleeves hid her hands as they fell to the ground. "He's dying, Legolas." Her chest heaved, and he could hear the unsteadiness in her breath. "What is so hard to understand?" He looked as if she had slapped him in the face.  
  
Before another moment could escape, one of the healers stumbled into the doorway, bidding Eowyn accompany him to the healing ward. Things were ill, and her assistance was needed. The shield maiden nodded as she wiped her moist face with the back of her hand and stepped passed Legolas toward the healer. The Elf remained motionless in his place, staring blankly into nothing as realization sunk in. Eowyn fled from her own despair to help in the ward, and it was only when her footsteps sounded against the floor stones in the hall that Legolas turned his head to peer over his shoulder. The lamp flame crackled and swayed inside its glass trap. He was alone. 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Finally, here is chapter 2. It's still too short, damn it all...Anyway, I hope you enjoy it all the same. I think I picked up the pace a bit – and the plot thickens, hehe...Please R/R!  
  
I finished Ties of Friendship finally, so if you were one of my Ties readers and have not yet ventured to read the ending, go do so!  
  
Also, for any of you who liked the movie Dead Poets Society, I've written a few fics for that too and I'd really appreciate it if you were to go R/R, sine they're so close to my heart...   
  
Once again, thanks and enjoy!

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Chapter 2

How long Legolas had sat alone in Eowyn's room, he did not know. He could hear the lamp flame too clearly to be human, or perhaps it was just because the silence besides was ominous enough to let the flame stand out. The light glinted in his pale eyes, glassy in thought and a blank stare. His fingers coursed over the folded cloth Eowyn had left in his hand. Her grief was leading her to believe that Faramir was beyond hope or healing. He pitied her for a while, before coming to the conclusion that it was up to him to prove her wrong. He absent-mindedly felt the woven flowers but could not escape to any thought. He was tied down in this room, in reality. He looked up when sounds dotted the silence. It had started to rain outside; already, the window was beaded. He had this strange feeling, like Faramir was cold somewhere in the house. He wouldn't know why, considering the fact that it was only autumn in the world. Imladris was breath taking in autumn... If it were not for this epidemic, he would be outside in the trees with Faramir, taking a stroll in the falling leaves. He could picture the woods perfectly – the soft glow of autumn, the way the sun beams were like shafts in a cathedral when they fell through the patches of sky in the foliage, the way the leaves floated down like a quiet snow. It always seemed like they would fall forever. The light made everything seem beautiful and young, like time would stop and never come back for them. Faramir was always so happy, he reminisced. Always so at peace...  
  
Legolas pulled away from his pleasant memories and got to his feet with the slightest trace of reluctance. He felt the handkerchief in between his fingers again and decided. He would go and see to Faramir. He would wake him up and carry him to the woods, where the light would take the fever away like fleeing doves. They would venture to the edge of eternity once more.  
  
By the time the Elf reached the ward, the sun was already disappearing somewhere in the pale sea of clouds. The rain had resigned to mere drizzle, and he felt the air run through his fingers with a faint smile. It was a beautiful day, and Minas Tirth was brought to mind. He thought of Aragorn, not for the first time that day, and wished for his best friend's company. The ward was an agreeable walk away from the Steward's manor, and Legolas strolled through the white streets with a contained smile. A scarce amount of people lingered outside, most being shut away with the sickness or tending to ill loved ones. Some were too frightened to venture out. He knew all too well how bad it was. He knew how many had died and how any more were expected to succumb to the disease. Yet he could not help but feel contented as he traveled toward the healing ward and Faramir. He could not help but turn twinkling eyes toward weary faces as he passed through, the handkerchief tucked away in his pocket. A wind took up the standard of Ithilien above the ward, fluttering audibly. He gazed up at it as he approached the steps leading to the door, and it all felt like a dream.  
  
"Your Majesty," said a healer with a bow. Everything was suddenly much darker with the door shut behind him and the world kept out. He could have pretended night had already fallen, as the Elf in gleaming white led him through the lantern-lit corridors. His eyes wandered over the shadows and the silhouettes as he followed, his mood nearly dissipating with the sound of distant moans. All the doors were closed, the dim glow reflecting in the glass and polished wood. He heard a creaking sound and presumed a door had been opened, missing the uneasy glance the healer gave him. Legolas was slightly surprised when he realized they were heading away from the main chamber, where Faramir had last been kept. He recalled the crowded atmosphere in the vast room when last he had visited the Steward, who had lain amongst all the common people on his own thinning cot. Yet this time, the healer pushed open a new door in the shadows, and Legolas disappeared into the room beyond.  
  
Only a small table lamp burned in the room, set on the bedside table. The drapes were pulled closed at the window to the left, and the air was thick and dank. The healer stood to one side, looking at Legolas encouragingly as he inclined his head toward the bed. Lantern was held in place, both hands wrapped around the handle. The prince of Eryn Lasgalen looked from the healer to the bed, hesitating, his contented mood gone entirely. He approached the grand bed slowly, uncertainty in his steps. As he neared it, the Steward's face became all too distinguishable, gleaming the lamplight with a sheen of sweat. He lay motionless in his fevered sleep, reflected in the Elf's wide eyes. Legolas' expression was one of disbelief, almost fear. Once he his gaze had lingered for a long moment on Faramir, he averted it to the bowl of water that sat undisturbed on the table, next to the lamp. A rag hung over the rim on one side, in still water. Legolas breathed the Steward's name without thinking, before turning back to face the healer, who had remained near the door tentatively.  
  
"We thought it better if he were secluded from the other victims," he explained. "We thought perhaps it might help." Legolas still had unanswered questions wrought in his face. His gaze was unflinching, and the healer grimaced. Elves were unaccustomed to lack of hope, which would be manifested in his unvoiced admittance. "He does not wake," he murmured sadly, nearing Legolas with his softly glowing lantern. His eyes were running from Legolas' cerulean orbs to Faramir's face. "We have tried feeding him broth and every herb imaginable, but it's no good." His voice turned bitter and hopeless. "I fear this sickness cannot be stopped," he muttered to Legolas, in a confidential tone, almost as if he feared Faramir would hear him. The two Elves shared a tense gaze for a moment, doubt and fear moving in the prince's eyes. He looked to Faramir and realized how ill he appeared. How much more ill could he really be?  
  
"That's impossible," he said, more to himself than to the healer. "Have you contacted the King Elessar?" he questioned, turning back the other Elf, who shook his head. He knew they had already inquired Aragorn about the disease, but if Faramir was really failing, word must be sent again. Desperation always had the ability to clear clouded solutions.  
  
"Little are left to venture that far," the healer said darkly. "We don't want to endanger Minas Tirith with this," he added.  
  
"I'll go," the Sylvan Elf provided at once. Their eyes locked again, impending doom thick and shadowed in each gaze. They knew the possibilities this epidemic might lead to...  
  
"We need you here," the healer protested in a low tone, his eyes descending back to Faramir as if the Steward were a Balrog about to be unleashed. "You're the best healer in the city." This was said as a fact, not a compliment.  
  
"But if someone does not ride," Legolas began, feeling as if they were on the brink of being caught in conspiracy by some faceless enemy. "It could slip out our control. Elessar would be too late by then." The healer stared unmoving at the dying Steward for a pregnant moment, holding his lantern of fading light up near his head, before turning his face back to Legolas.  
  
"It's already out of our control."  
  
"Elfaen," someone cried out beyond the door. "Elfaen." The healer moved toward the door, not hesitating for Legolas. He flung it open and a draft flew swiftly in, causing Legolas' head to snap toward him.  
  
"_Im bo nin athrad_," he shouted in reply. _I'm on my way_. He looked back to Legolas in apology, before taking off and shutting the door behind him. Again, Legolas was alone.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Yay! Here's Chapter 3! Please R/R! Thanks!

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Chapter 3  
  
Once the door had flown shut and set the tapestries fluttering, Legolas looked back to Faramir. He was tempted to resent that healer but decided it best to keep Elfaen on his side. Too many had fallen ill, and the burden was heavy on the healers. He understood, having the gift of healing himself. Faramir's face glistened in the candlelight. A new burden had risen up to challenge Legolas now. His heart bade him ride for the White City, but apprehension lingered still. He couldn't be led to believe that his presence was so imperative that he did not have a choice. Surely, the staff of Elven healers could handle the situation for a few days, whilst he sought Elessar's counsel. However, Legolas feared that it would get out of hand soon if he didn't ride. Yet as he weighed his choices in his head, Elfaen's words echoed. He wasn't really the best healer in Ithilien, was he? He had never believed so, but perhaps his modesty belied his skill. And in no way could the epidemic already be out of hand. It couldn't be too late – Elfaen must be exaggerating. Yet Elves were not so inclined to lose hope... Legolas began to doubt his own faith.  
  
His thoughts were broken, and he flinched at the noise coming from the corridor. The door muffled the footfalls, and he looked toward it again. The lantern swayed below his hand, reflecting in his darkened eyes. He had overstayed his visit. The Elf swiftly leaned forward and touched his slender hand to the Steward's brow. The man's skin warmed his own, and translucent eyes searched a still face.  
  
"May the grace of the Valar keep you," he whispered.  
  
"Faster! Go! Go!" A man's surly shouting interrupted the archer, who snapped his head toward the sound for an instant. As the shouting penetrated the thick quiet of the chamber again, the prince's hand left his friend's brow, and Legolas hurried to the door. He resisted the temptation to look back and slipped out into the corridor. A rough looking man stood down the way, his soiled boots violently contrasting against the rug that ran the length of the hall. The man turned his head to look at the Elf, who stood against the door almost guiltily. His grizzly eyes met the archer's and did not break away until more men leapt out into sight and fled down the corridor without an inkling of the Elf's presence. Their voices echoed even once they had disappeared around the corner, and Legolas was almost shrinking against the door under the burly Man's scrutiny. Yet the Elf had to suffer it no more than a moment longer, for the Man turned on his heel and stalked off into the shadows. As Legolas loosened, Elfaen stepped out in the wake of the Men.  
  
"They're burning the West End," he gasped. His silken hair fell around his neck, caught in the halt of his motion. "The Men are from the wilds, they're the only ones left." Legolas stared at him with wide, fear struck eyes. "They go to put it out," Elfaen reassured. "Madness has claimed the survivors."  
  
"Elfaen," someone shouted in the distance. Both Elves looked toward the sound. "Elfaen." The healer sprang down the corridor without a second glance to his prince, and Legolas was left alone with his returning wits. He wasn't sure why the man had reduced to him cowering against the door, but those eyes had only made his stomach turn in a way he hadn't felt for years. The people were burning the city; that must be why those men had rushed away with buckets. Perhaps Elfaen hadn't been exaggerating circumstances. Legolas pried away from the door, his heart still with Faramir, and followed the invisible footsteps of Elfaen and the wild Men. One thing occurred to the Elf as he ran - the healer had failed to mention why they had come to Ithilien.  
  
By the time Legolas reached the West End, the band of wild Men were well into putting out the flames that consumed one particular house. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was but one. He had imagined the entire western border of Ithilien to be burning as he had rushed down the white streets. Yet if it had not been for the mortal strangers, the flames would have easily spread, and Legolas knew it. The prince only stood motionlessly before the house, watching as the Men jostled back and forth and in and out. He noticed Elfaen among them, wondering why in Valar's name the head healer was endangering himself when the ward overflowing with patients. It did not occur to him, as he watched the activity with a shrieking woman behind him, that he could help in extinguishing the blaze. Perhaps it was his knowing that chances of escaping someone's protection of a royal were none too high. He let his eyes wander up to the dancing flames that licked the sky and the smoke that fumed up like towers of destruction.  
  
"We need more water," one of the Men called out.  
  
"Keep the people away," Elfaen shouted over the crackling. His eyes met Legolas' for a breath, before he whipped back around. And it seemed that as soon as the healer turned away from the prince, someone hurtled himself at Legolas, throwing the Elf to the ground. Legolas grunted in surprise and discomfort, as his shoulder collided with the stone road and the weight of another being winded him. Just as he hit the ground, an explosion roared in his ears, as the flames billowed out from the window at the top of the building.  
  
"Your Majesty, you cannot linger here," the Man shouted, sliding off of him. Legolas only looked at him, disoriented, soot already smudging his face. Screaming still rang out amongst them, and no one bothered to shut the woman up. She clutched her face and watched the flames, as her screeching sent madness into her eyes.  
  
"Legolas," someone yelled, a familiar voice. The Elf snapped over on to his stomach and looked back up the road from whence he came. The ivory sleeves of Eowyn's gown flapped in the distance, beyond the smoke streams. She was rushing toward him, as he lay on the stones, and he did not realize time. In the next moment, her hand was flung into his own, pulling him to his feet. She eyed the fire in disbelief for a moment, before tugging at Legolas. "Come on," she beckoned, starting back up the road.  
  
"No," he protested after catching himself, pulling back. " We can't leave them to this." Their eyes met, and she looked from him to the fire and back again.  
  
"They already have it under control, we can't stay here and endanger ourselves," she said. "The people are going mad, we must leave." Her insistence was characteristic of her bloodline, her tone reminding him of Eomer and Theoden. He did not reply, and the screaming filled his silence. His eyes glimmered, before he turned back to look at the burning once again. Elfaen was just beyond the thin layer of smoke, the only recognizable face among those who worked to put out the fire. For what seemed like an eternity of tension, Legolas waited in his place, as if expecting something. "Legolas, we must go," Eowyn urged. Suddenly, a beam collapsed, and Elfaen vanished. As if on cue, Legolas sprang forward like a hunted deer. "Legolas," Eowyn screamed. He bound forth through the smoke without hesitation, almost diving into the debris, as Eowyn gawked after him in horror. Another explosion shook the foundations of Eowyn's composure, and she screamed the Elf's name in a stream of unanswered pleas.  
  
"Milady." She snapped her head back over her shoulder and looked into Elven eyes. "It is the Steward," he said, his tone as stoic as any Elf's. And her eyes were stricken.  
  
With the mad woman's screams piercing the flames, Legolas flung himself through the smoke, clutching Elfaen's limp body to his chest. Eowyn was startled back to her senses, as the archer stumbled at her feet. Blood ran down the side of Elfaen's face, his head lolling against Legolas' shoulder. The prince gasped, trying to catch his breath, and the healer standing at Eowyn's shoulder moved to steady him.  
  
"The Men have it," he said, reassuring Eowyn, as the nameless healer took Elfaen from him.  
  
"Legolas," she began. "It's Faramir." Their eyes met for an instant, where foreboding hung between them and threatened. He snatched her hand in his and fled back up the road without a second glance at the fire, followed by the healer carrying Elfaen. The screaming faded away the farther they were from the fire and the closer they became to the ward.  
  
Legolas convulsed into a coughing fit as they burst into the healer's chamber, and the nameless healer flew past with Elfaen. Another healer grabbed Eowyn the instant she appeared and led her away hurriedly to Faramir, whilst yet another Elf took Legolas by the shoulders and sat him down on the nearest bed. The first healer was already tending to Elfaen, and Eowyn was gone before Legolas had a chance to say anything. After a long moment, the archer still had not ceased to cough, and it began to alarm him. The healer who had gone to him had given him a glass of water but looked concerned for the prince. Legolas could taste the smoke in his lungs, even as he tried to drown himself in one glass of water.  
  
"Elfaen," he uttered, once had taken control of his fit. "How is he?" he spluttered. The healer who had helped him peered back to where Elfaen lay, the other healer bent over him meticulously. He turned back after a minute and reassured Legolas that Elfaen would be fine, hoping he was right. He left and returned with a bowl of water and a rag, the third set Legolas had suffered to see that day, with the second being used on Elfaen at the same moment.  
  
"_Im Finnelion_," he said softly, as he began to dab away the soot on Legolas' face with one dampened corner of the rag. _I am Finnelion_.  
  
"_Ten bain eneth_," Legolas said sincerely. _It is a fair name_. Finnelion smiled faintly, holding the prince's chin gently in between his thumb and forefinger. The archer's eyes wandered from Finnelion's fair face to beyond, where Elfaen lay. "_Faramir thinna_," he murmured. _Faramir fades_. Finnelion barely nodded, his face suddenly darkening. "_Bedithon an Minas Tirth treneri i-aran_," Legolas whispered, his tone so quiet, it was nearly inaudible. _I will go to Minas Tirith to tell the king.  
_  
"No," Finnelion exclaimed, his eyes widening. He seized Legolas by the shoulders absently. "_Le turu, nin ernil_." _You cannot, my prince_. Naked fear stared into Legolas' cerulean orbs. "_Dartha_ ,"he pleaded. "_Egor Ithilien dannen_." His own whisper was barely audible, even to Legolas. _Stay, or Ithilien is fallen.  
_  
"_Nin ernil_." _My prince._ The Elf looked turned his torso toward the door behind him to look at his caller. The healer that had led Eowyn away lingered in the doorway. "_Tolo_." _Come_. His tone was quiet, and Legolas thought he sensed sadness in his face. The archer got to his feet, pausing for a moment with Finnelion's eyes still fixed on him. He held the younger Elf's gaze for a moment, before clasping Finnelion's shoulder reassuringly. "_Hannon le_," he said, before leaving with the other healer. Thank you. Finnelion was left standing in his place, the damp rag still in hand.  
  
Legolas followed this new healer silently, and the other Elf did not look back at him as they approached the door of Faramir's chamber. Each pair of Elven footsteps was soundless on the rug, and no other sound reached Legolas' ears. He knew in his heart that it wasn't good. He knew Faramir was fading beyond the door. The prince continued to follow the healer, bowing his head and watching his boots in an almost sullen manner. He lifted it once more when the healer reached the door and slipped in before him. Eowyn was sitting at the bedside, bent over in grief. Her ripples of golden hair hid the tears that Legolas already knew fell. The door clicked behind him, and the lamplight was the same.  
  
Legolas approached the bed warily, as if afraid of the man who lay motionless in the sheets. He did not go to Eowyn but stood at the foot of the bed, as the sound of her weeping scraped at his ears. He stared into Faramir's face, unchanged from when he had last been here, and became unaware of the healer. The Steward's face looked as if a hidden fire burned beneath the surface of his skin, and Legolas' eyes shone in the candlelight. The Elf almost expected for the flames to come up out of the man's skin, but Faramir only lay still. His chest barely moved, for his breath was that faint. It was in that moment that Legolas realized his friend was truly dying – right there, as he watched him.  
  
"Can nothing more be done?" He felt as if it was someone else's voice.  
  
"Nothing that we know of," the healer replied. "The fever worsened whilst you were away, and his breathing slowed even further. His entire bloodstream must be infected now. We cannot know the cure for a sickness we have never before encountered. Nothing is left for him." And just like that, Faramir was resigned to hopelessness. Eowyn sobbed out loud for the first time since she had met Legolas, and the Elf's glazed stare was yet fixed on the Steward. He seemed to stand on the edge of hope and despair for eternity, as Rohan's Shield-maiden succumbed to grief and the healer was silent in his defeat. Yet in Legolas' mind, a form of hope still lingered.  
  
"Leave us," he said. The healer's eyes glinted, and Eowyn looked up at the prince in befuddlement. Legolas, however, did not move his eyes from Faramir. Silence fell over the room like velvet, and the lamplight flickered in the shadows. "Leave us," he said again, after a long pause. His voice shaped the velvet into a snake slithering toward the Steward.  
  
"Why do you ask this of us?" Eowyn questioned tearfully.  
  
Legolas' eyes glimmered in their blank stare. "If you want him to live, leave us." She did not answer nor move for a minute, but Eowyn eventually stood. She gazed at Legolas with her blue eyes painting the canvas of her visage with tears, her lip quivering. "Come," she said and turned toward the door, the healer helplessly following. Yet she paused halfway out into the corridor, peering back at Legolas. "Save him," she said to the Elf's back. One more moment of waiting, and Eowyn left her beloved in the Elf's hands.


End file.
